Who can help,
who really cares,
unless its cash in your pocket,
or its others affairs.
Who needs the stress,
its another one to solve,
Its care factor zero,
an ignorance to behold.
He didn’t care if it walked and talked,
didn’t care if it smiles or balked.
didn’t care if the legs came off,
couldn’t care less if it nodded or dead.
The art of not giving a shit complete,
if you can’t understand the delight,
your not it.
Not throwing your weight around when able,
not telling fibs, tales and the wails.
Being able to lay straight in bed,
not seeing everything as red red red.
and often true,
that the humor we brought,
for the beloved few.
Yes its true,
I’ll probably be shot,
rather than hosting,
this sullen load of rot.
But don’t blame me if you continue to read,
these are the ramblings of a mad man,
who’s got no one but himself to please.
Everyone else has their platform of praise.
So I’ll just stick to myself and ramble away,
Letting God take care rather than burning those letters of pray.
I’d pray there in text,
ready to send letter.
Printed it out,
looked liked ink as in matter.
But I never sent,
all those letters of pain,
deleted the draft,
Never a personal letter was sent,
except for a few I’ll live to regret.
So maybe here,
maybe now – the rooster’ll come home,
and God can crown me,
one of his own.